


I Know the Prices You Gotta Pay

by Rubytaire



Series: The wind and the thunder [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Amnesia, Canon Era, Fae & Fairies, Lost Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 04:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20924192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubytaire/pseuds/Rubytaire
Summary: "Do you ever stop talking?" Enjolras interrupted. Despite the words, his voice was fond. Grantaire peered down at him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile."Sometimes. When my mouth is better occupied."





	I Know the Prices You Gotta Pay

It was with a certain bounce to his step that Enjolras climbed the stairs to his rooms. The meeting at the Musain had been an unmitigated success, drawing a fair number of curious individuals intrigued by the idea of a fairer, more even-handed world. Of course, many would cease to attend in the coming weeks – Enjolras wasn't so naive that he was expecting complete faithfulness to the Cause – but there had been more than enough faces that Enjolras was confident would soon become familiar friends among the crowd. A man named Courfeyrac had seemed particularly promising, if slightly loud.

They were still some years off taking any kind of firm action against the corruption that saturated Paris, but Enjolras knew that they had taken a very important first step tonight. It wouldn't be long until the meetings gathered steam and they could begin to build connections with the various guilds and clubs scattered throughout the city.

So consumed was he with his future plans, he failed to notice the trunk in his way until he had almost tripped over it. A laugh rang out and Enjolras turned his exasperated gaze on the boy lounging in the corner chair.

"R. Really? The whole reason behind you not coming to the meeting was to give you time to unpack."

"And I did. Almost. I was just taking a break before tackling the last trunk. It's your fault I'm not finished, anyway – why on earth you felt the need to bring so many books, I'll never know."

Enjolras' eyes flicked to the bookcase for the first time, pleased to note that Grantaire had not only unpacked his books but also neatly filed them by author's name. He'd half expected the other boy to have sorted them by colour or thickness just to irritate Enjolras.

"I'm studying law, R. Books kind of come with the territory." He said dryly. Grantaire rolled his eyes, getting out of the chair to slink across the room and slide his arms around Enjolras' neck.

"Yes, and I'm to be a great artist. But do you see piles of art supplies cluttering the room? Did we load the carriage with easels and trunks of pretty paints? We're in _Paris_, Enjolras. Not the countryside. Not anymore. We can get whatever supplies we need, whenever we need them."

Enjolras couldn't help the grin that spread across his face at Grantaire's words, despite the lightly mocking tone behind them. _Paris_. The capital. No more was he to sit wincing at his parents' dinner table as they spouted conservative nonsense about politics they knew nothing about. Or sit in the semi-darkness of the school library, desk illuminated by a few simple fire spells, feverishly writing letters to distant government figures who would dismiss his ideas out-of-hand, ignoring the sniggers of ignorant, self-satisfied students who passed by.

Grantaire – the only student who had _not_ passed by, though that hadn't stopped him from sniggering – peered suspiciously up at Enjolras' smile.

"You're thinking about politics again, aren't you?" He said resignedly. At Enjolras' innocent blinking, he threw up his hands in mock anger.

"Honestly! Less than three days here and you've already become even more of a cultureless bore. I bet you haven't even bothered to find out where the best places for a good night out are."

"That's what I have you for."

"Oh, so that's how it is, hmm? You move to the city to become some hotshot revolutionary leader, while your poor childhood friend tags along to tidy up after you and act like some glorified locator spell. I could have stayed and painted in Lignac, you know."

Enjolras snorted, trying to imagine a grown Grantaire living out of a quiet country home, perhaps setting up his easel in the midst of a flower-strewn garden or on the hills surrounding the town. Grantaire had already been chafing at the bit, a true cosmopolite waiting to be released into his natural habitat. He'd have gone mad within a few years had he stayed.

"You'd have got bored without me. You wouldn't have lasted a week."

"Lies! Lies and slander. I shall be consulting with my lawyer." Grantaire protested, his eyes twinkling. Enjolras laughed.

"I'm afraid your lawyer has yet to learn his craft. You may have to delay your claim for a few years."

Pouting, Grantaire wound his arms around Enjolras' neck again.

"That's an awfully long time. What do you advise I do in the meantime?"

Enjolras shivered, eyes hooded. The heat of Grantaire's body felt scorching after the cool evening air of outside.

"I can think of a few things." He murmured, leaning down.

* * *

"...and then he stood up and told the teacher, 'I think you'll find it was 1715, not 1751. Should I direct you to a good book on the subject?'"

The room burst out into ebullient laughter. Enjolras sank down lower in his chair, hiding his face with one hand. It was at times like these that he regretted encouraging Grantaire to attend the ABC meetings.

"And how did the good teacher respond?" Bossuet pressed merrily, "Did Enjolras get the thrashing he oh-so-clearly deserved?"

"Of course not!" chortled Grantaire, flailing his bottle around enthusiastically. "One look in our golden leader's eyes and he froze as if staring upon Medusa instead of Apollo! He stammered out the rest of the lesson, rushed out of the classroom and never taught the upper school again!"

Bossuet roared with laughter, hitting the table with one hand. Beside him, Jehan near shrieked with glee, falling out of his chair and rolling under the table in his exultations. 

"R," Enjolras tried, straightening up and trying to look authoritative, "Come on. R, stop it. This isn't what we're here to discuss. No one here is interested in my school years."

"Au contraire, Enjolras!" Courfeyrac denied, calling across the room from where he had perched himself by the window. "I think you'll find we are very interested. Now, do go on, R: at what point did Enjolras realise his body had other needs than food, water and sleep?"

Enjolras turned mute, pleading eyes on Combeferre. The older boy rolled his eyes good-naturedly, though he did get to his feet and stride across the room to stand by Courfeyrac.

"Courfeyrac," He began pleasantly, "If you don't stop now I will tell everyone in this room what really happened at the Coquelle cafe."

Courfeyrac's laughter died in his throat, his eyes going wide and panicked as he scrambled to apologise. Combeferre smiled in satisfaction, turning on Grantaire. The dark-haired boy had been busy mocking Courfeyrac's reaction to the threat, but now he froze with his bottle at his lips.

"As for you, R, I'd advise quieting down unless you would like me to inform Joly exactly how many times you have gone walking in the rain this winter."

Joly's head whipped to the side, eyes boring into the side of Grantaire's head accusatorily. Grantaire winced, shooting Combeferre a narrow-eyed glare.

"Low blow."

"Low? Maybe. Effective? Undoubtedly. Enjolras, the floor is yours." And with that, he glided back to his seat.

The room fell silent, all eyes on Enjolras as he stood to speak.

"Friends! I have excellent news. The masons have heard of our meetings and have expressed interest in allying themselves with us." A cheer went up. "If we can reach out to the young medics and the young lawyers, and perhaps to another guild or two, we can begin to action some real changes. No more will people look upon us handing out pamphlets as bored young men just looking to stir up trouble."

"But you _are _looking to stir up trouble." Grantaire pointed out mildly. Enjolras glared at him – it hadn't escaped him that whenever Grantaire discussed the group's activities he spoke as one not truly involved with them.

"For the good of the country. Not for our own amusement."

"Is there a difference? You may think you're going to play the hero, but a fight's a fight. The people don't care who's in charge; they care where their next loaf of bread is coming from. They won't follow you if they think you'll put their livelihoods and families at risk. They have too much to lose."

Enjolras paused, pursing his lips. There it was. The reason he hadn't truly made much of an effort to dissuade Grantaire's more cynical outbursts. The other had an uncanny ability to poke holes in Enjolras' lofty ideas exactly where they most needed strengthening.

"What if we promise them extra supplies if they march with us?" Courfeyrac suggested, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the back of his chair.

"With what money? I don't know about your father, Courfeyrac, but mine would certainly protest at being asked to pay to feed the five thousand. Jesus, he is not." Joly retorted.

"We just need to make them realise that life will be better once their voices can be heard," Feuilly mused. "It's harder work, but shifting someone's ideology is far more powerful than a few empty promises of food."

"Easier said than done. Could we get some of the papers involved? I'd be happy to contribute a piece or two." Jehan offered.

"Does anyone have any connections with the industry?" Enjolras asked. The room fell silent and he sighed. "Probably not, then."

"What about if we get some of the women's charitable organisations to do some fundraising?" Bahorel offered, before immediately screwing up his face in disgust as he thought about it. "Wait, never mind. Most of those crones are only in it for the cake and gossip."

"We'll put on a show. Something spectacular. I think I can just about remember some of the light spells from school. One of the older boys used to be able to set his hands on fire and make explosions in the sky. I always thought that looked cool." Bossuet grinned. Joly squawked, hitting him around the shoulders with his cane.

"Not on your life, Bossuet! I had to heal you after your egg-boiling spell went wrong! If you think I'm letting you set yourself on fire, you have another thing coming!"

"Besides," Combeferre broke in, "Anything as big as that has the danger of losing the message and just becoming meaningless entertainment."

"So we're back to just handing out pamphlets." Courfeyrac sighed.

"Not necessarily." All eyes flicked to Grantaire, who looked his usual mix of pleased and surprised at the sudden onslaught of attention. "Look, pamphlets are easily discarded. And some of the people you're handing them to can't even read them. Why not make them more exciting? Enchant the words to flash different colours, put moving images on them...anything that will make people want to take them home to show their family. Have Enjolras deliver one of his stirring speeches before you press the pamphlets on people; hell, you could probably even spell them to read out their content in Enjolras' voice for people who can't read. It's reasonably minor spellwork – I'm sure we could figure it out. It's not exactly setting ourselves on fire, after all. And if it's beyond us, it probably wouldn't cost too much to go to a professional." 

The room broke out into excited chattering as everyone leapt on the idea at once, eager to offer their own input into exactly what colours and pictures would be best suited for such an endeavour. Grantaire leaned back in his chair with an over-exaggerated yawn and stretch, his work for the evening done. He was just lifting his bottle to his lips when Enjolras was suddenly beside him, wrapping one hand around his wrist and urging him to his feet.

"Come with me."

"What? I still have almost a whole bottle left. You _know_ Bossuet will grab it if I leave it unattended. I swear the man has no shame..."

"_R_. Come. With. Me."

Grumbling, Grantaire allowed himself to be pulled from his seat and ushered out of the room. Fully expecting to be dragged home for some imagined misdemeanour, he let out a startled protest as Enjolras instead pulled him downstairs and into the cupboard Madame Houcheloup used for storing brushes and potions out of the sight of paying customers.

"Enjolras? What...mmph!" All queries were lost in the sudden press of Enjolras' lips against his, the other boy's hands sliding up to bury themselves in Grantaire's hair.

"You," the blonde panted, tearing himself briefly away to look down at Grantaire, "are the most infuriatingly," Another kiss. "intelligent," He paused again, the lure of Grantaire's mouth too strong. "man I know."

"Umm...thank you?" Grantaire tried in the few moments he had before Enjolras' lips were covering his once more. Then all words were lost as Enjolras' hands fumbled their way downwards to their trouser fastenings.

Afterwards, leaning against each other in the now sweltering cupboard as they gasped for breath, Enjolras shook his head where it was pressed against Grantaire's shoulder.

"Honestly. Every time I think I know what to expect from you, you somehow manage to surprise me."

"That's me. A modern day Proteus. Just without the awe-inspiring prophecies. Although, would that make you Menelaus or Aristaeus? The Apollo connection makes Aristaeus the more likely, though he is far too pastoral a figure for one such as yourself. Yet if you are a Menelaus, that would make me your Helen, and I definitely don't have the face nor figure to launch a thousand ships. Perhaps..."

"Do you ever stop talking?" Enjolras interrupted. Despite the words, his voice was fond. Grantaire peered down at him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile.

"Sometimes. When my mouth is better occupied."

"Ugh. Don't make me think about that. I still need to go back and finish the meeting."

Grantaire lifted Enjolras' head off his shoulder and moved back from him, cupping Enjolras' cheeks as he turned the other's face side to side and inspected him. Enjolras' blonde hair was hopelessly wild, with random tufts sticking up and trying to escape his usual waves. His neck was already purpling in places and the red of stubble burn was just beginning to fade into existence along his jawline.

Grantaire winced. "They're going to know exactly what we've been doing down here."

Enjolras coloured, having not thought quite that far ahead when he was determinedly dragging Grantaire into the cupboard. Somehow, Grantaire always managed to bring out the worst in him.

"Maybe I could adjust my cravat?"

"Enjolras, you could wear all the cravats in the entire _bar_ and they wouldn't be enough to cover those marks."

"Oh, god. Courfeyrac is never going to let me live this down."

"Sorry." Grantaire murmured, rubbing a hand through Enjolras' hair in a feeble attempt at smoothing it down. Enjolras blinked.

"Sorry? What for? It was _me_ that dragged _you_ in here. I'm the one that couldn't control himself." He sighed. "Actually, no. It _is_ your fault. You spend so much of the time pretending to be a cynical, overdramatic fool. And then you slip up and reveal how brilliant you actually are. It's maddening."

"Don't worry. Get a few drinks in me and that brilliance will quickly vanish."

"I can see right through your game, R. I'm not paying for your drinks again. You always end up paying for Bossuet and Joly's drinks. Which means _I_ end up paying for them."

"And it's a truly touching gesture of friendship. I know that it means a lot to them."

Snorting, Enjolras stepped back and began to refasten his trousers.

"I'll bet. Are you coming with m..._stop laughing_! I mean, are you going back upstairs with me?"

Grantaire considered himself. He most likely had a matching set of purpling marks on his own throat and his hair certainly wouldn't have fared any better with the amount of times he had felt Enjolras drag his hands through it. Not to mention that he was fairly sure there was a dubious stain on his trousers that would be all too obvious under the bright lights of the room upstairs.

"Nah. I think I'll head home. Maybe the others will think you wrestled me to death instead and leave you alone out of fear."

"Knowing Courfeyrac, he'd just ask if he could come and help me hide the body. He'd probably see it as a great adventure." Enjolras said dryly. Trousers fastened and giving up on his hair as a useless endeavour, he opened the door and stepped out blinking into the light of the stairway. Grantaire followed, still fumbling with his own trousers.

"Bahorel probably would as well. I'll see you at home, okay?"

Enjolras leaned in to kiss him goodbye, mind already returning to the meeting upstairs and the state of anarchy it had probably deteriorated into in his absence.

"See you at home. Love you." He said distractedly, hurrying upstairs. He didn't notice Grantaire gaping at him and, in fact, wouldn't really register what he had said until much later when he was already nearly home.

* * *

Enjolras was out dining with Courfeyrac and Combeferre when he first saw Patron-Minette in action. They were in the middle of their second course when there was a sudden crash from the other side of the room as a table went flying. As one, the servers turned to help only to pull up short as they saw which group of men was responsible for the destruction. Instead, one took off running out of the door, presumably going to summon the police.

"No!" A man in a luridly peacock-ish outfit yelled. "No! This wasn't the deal! She said I could pay in instalments! We shook on it!"

He leapt back as one of the men made a swipe for him, crying out as he narrowly dodged being caught by the one behind him. A third man – the youngest of them all, with startlingly handsome features and lips the colour of cherries – tsked and shook his head in mock despair.

"That was before you skipped your last few payments and instead went about the town boasting how you had 'got one over the faery whore'. Am I ringing any bells?" He swept both hands through the air in an elegant helix, smirking as purple ropes sprang out of nowhere to wrap around his victim's arms and legs. The other man shrieked, desperately yanking backwards but unable to find purchase on the ground, feet sliding helplessly across the plush carpet as the elegant dandy crooked a finger and pulled him across the room to him.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to cause offence! I've learnt my lesson! I'll go and pay her now. All the missed weeks. And a little bit on top as an apology! I won't..."

"Didn't mean to cause offence? Didn't mean to get caught, you mean." The largest of the men rumbled. Behind his beard, teeth flashed in an unnerving grin. "Maybe we should let Babet pull the teeth out of your lying mouth."

The man screamed, thrashing futilely in his bonds. The youngest man rolled his eyes, making a sharp gesture with one hand that slapped a glowing purple square across the peacock's mouth, instantly muffling him.

"Really, Gueulemer, must you always rile them so? These good people are trying to enjoy their Tuesday evening."

"Sorry, Montparnasse." The giant looked around the room, seemingly noticing the tables full of frozen, transfixed diners properly for the first time. "We'll be out of your hair shortly, ladies and gentlemen. Please continue with your evening."

The room stayed still and silent. Not a single patron dared to make a move toward their cutlery.

Gueulemer shrugged, turning back to the scene behind him. "Fair enough. Dinner and a show."

During the interlude, Montparnasse had drawn a knife from his coat and was now teasingly tracing the lines of his victim's face. The other man was trembling in place, muffled whines and whimpers escaping his gag. Montparnasse shushed him, placing a tender kiss upon his cheek.

"Hush, darling. You're making a scene. Whatever will these people think of you? Now, where is your Mark?"

He ran a gentle hand over the bound man's chest and arms, a grotesque parody of a lover's touch. It wasn't until he had smoothed all the way down to the inner thigh and back up to the man's throat that his face brightened. 

"Ah, here we are. And in such a convenient place, too! I must thank you, Monsieur, really."

Sweeping the knife up in one effortless flick of motion, Montparnasse cut the man's cravat away and bared the man's neck to the room. Across the room, Enjolras made a stifled movement to get up, only stopped by the iron grip of Courfeyrac's hand on his wrist.

"Are you insane?" Courfeyrac hissed, eyes wild in his pale face. "That's Patron-Minette!"

"I don't know who that is, and why should it matter anyway? They're going to kill that man." Enjolras retorted, disappointed. He had never taken his friend for a coward; how did Courfeyrac expect to stand upon the future barricades if he wasn't prepared to fight for justice here and now?

"See that mark upon his throat?" Courfeyrac whispered urgently. Enjolras looked, just able to work out a small dark pattern, barely the size of a Napoleon, nestled in the hollow of the man's throat. "That's the mark of the _Fae_. That man made a deal and tried to break it – he's beyond help now."

Enjolras hesitated.

"What are you talking about? The Fae don't usually involve themselves in the world of men. They stick to the mountains and forests. And even then, they only show themselves to people foolish enough to linger near faery rings." He made to get up again, only to jerk in surprise as Combeferre's hand clamped itself tight around his other wrist.

"One of them lives here in Paris. She was exiled for consorting with humans; she earns a living now making deals with the desperate and foolhardy. That man's made a deal with Madame Thénardier – Patron-Minette are her enforcers. Do you really think you have the power necessary to fight three people drawing on Fae magic?"

Trembling in helpless rage, Enjolras watched as Montparnasse sauntered closer to his victim, a mocking smile twisting his plush lips.

"Ah, Monsieur Brodeur," He sighed, using his victim's name for the first time. "If only you hadn't been so vain. What was it, the sight of deepening crow's feet in the mirror? Perhaps a wrinkle marring your forehead, or a grey hair or two amongst your locks?"

Brodeur sobbed, his head lowered in defeat. He had stopped fighting against the inevitable.

"The trouble is, youth is for the young. You had your time, Monsieur, and you wasted it. And now you've wasted your middling years as well."

Several women screamed as Montparnasse abruptly drew the knife in a vicious slash across Brodeur's Mark. Yet there was no blood. Instead of a sudden spray of scarlet painting the cream walls of the restaurant, golden light seemed to pour out of the Mark, twisting and writhing in mid-air before eventually being drawn into Montparnasse's knife. Brodeur was wailing now, screams harsh and wretched, loud enough to be heard clearly even over the muffling of the gag. Enjolras watched in horror as the rich colour of Brodeur's dark locks drained away to reveal wispy tufts of thin white hair, his skin yellowing and sagging as the wrinkles of decades carved themselves into his face. Even his body seemed to shrink in on itself, the bones of his cheeks and hands becoming startlingly prominent as his back curved forward into a hopeless slump.

By the time Montparnasse had stepped back, knife pulsing with golden magic, Brodeur was little more than a skeleton. He'd be lucky to live out the year.

Gueulemer whistled, slinging an around the shoulders of the as-yet unnamed third member of the group.

"Now that's something. I'll tell you what, you never get bored with this job. Think he'll be able to walk home? Or will those feeble bones snap under the weight of his body?"

"Don't be crass, Gueulemer." Montparnasse said reproachfully, clicking his fingers and dissolving Brodeur's bonds. He glanced around the room, seemingly amused by the terrified expressions of sick awe he saw on their faces.

"Don't forget, Madame Thénardier is open all day, every day, for all your needs and woes. No job too big or small. Tell your friends!" He bowed, sweeping his hat from his head in an elegant flourish. When he straightened, his smile was hard and vicious. "Just make sure that you can pay the price. Good evening!"

And with that, he and his companions were gone, spiriting themselves out of the door mere moments before the missing server returned with two police mages panting along in his wake.

Enjolras turned to stare at Courfeyrac and Combeferre, mouth opening and shutting uselessly. Courfeyrac looked like he was contemplating throwing up, though he still managed to toss Enjolras a shaky wink.

"I bet this wasn't the kind of excitement you were expecting when you moved to Paris, hmm?"

Enjolras shook his head wordlessly, trying to find the words to express the grotesque performance he had just witnessed.

Across the room, Brodeur's piteous sobs rent the suffocating silence.

* * *

"Enjolras? Could you pass me that jar of red pigment, please? I think this sunset needs a little more 'oomph' to it."

Enjolras frowned down at his papers, willing his scribbles to make more sense. He had been so sure that this argument would seal his case, yet his words seemed to trail off into nothing here. What had gone wrong?

"Enjolras, the red pigment?"

Maybe it was the phrasing. Was 'wretched unfortunate' patronising? He wanted this speech to be emotive enough to tug at the heartstrings of even the hardest noble, but not at the expense of alienating the poor.

"Enjolras?"

Perhaps he should scrap the whole thing altogether. He had spent far too many lost nights slaving away over imperfect speeches only to realise in the cold light of day that he would have been far better off starting over from the beginning. The question was, was it the entire speech that was flawed, or just this particular line of argument?

"Enjolras!"

The problem was that he really liked the third paragraph of this section. His comparison of treason and the abandonment of the poor would leave no mind in doubt of his true criticisms, yet was just vague enough that Enjolras could not rightfully be accused of inciting rebellion against the King. Could he save it and weave it into a different speech? Except that it directly followed on from the previous paragraph, which might make it...

He paused, distracted by a dull scraping sound beside him, and turned just in time to take a jar to the face as it leapt off the table and into the air. Glaring, he grabbed at it before it could fall and turned to where Grantaire was standing beside the easel, hand outstretched and face mulish.

"R!"

"You only have yourself to blame," Grantaire sniffed, not a hint of regret in his voice. "I asked you for the paint four times. You were ignoring me."

Enjolras passed the pigment over, still glaring.

"I wasn't ignoring you! I was just working on my speech. You know that..."

"...you've been asked to speak at the rally outside of the Chamber of Deputies, yes."

"Don't you realise how important this is? This could be our best chance to..."

"...gather support from both the masses and the deputies, bringing attention to the important work of the Friends of the ABC. I _know_, Enjolras. You've been telling me every day for two weeks."

Enjolras paused, noticing the undercurrent of strain in Grantaire's voice for the first time. Glancing around the room, he realised that despite his preoccupation his clothing had still been taken to the laundress and was now folded neatly upon the corner chair. Their supply of candles – dangerously low last month – had been replenished, allowing Enjolras to see the papers he had been so focused upon. The charms upon the fireplace had been renewed, keeping the spring chill out of their home.

Perhaps most damning of all, Grantaire's collection of wine bottles had apparently doubled, though their contents seemed to be lacking.

"I've been an ingrate, haven't I?" He realised. Grantaire cracked a smile, the tension flowing out of his shoulders.

"Yes. But there's nothing new there."

Enjolras sighed, rubbing wearily at the bridge of his nose. Now that he thought about it, when was the last time he'd had a proper conversation with Grantaire? Ever since he'd been approached by the leader of the Society of the Rights of Man, he'd spent every available moment outside of his studies and the Musain meetings trapped at this table, feverishly drafting and redrafting his speech. He couldn't remember exchanging any more words with Grantaire than it took to demand he stop horsing around in meetings, or grunt his thanks when Grantaire slipped a plate of bread, cheese and meat next to his pen and ink. 

"I'm sorry. I'm just..."

"You're worried about your speech. It's understandable – it will be the biggest crowd you've ever spoken in front of. But the rally isn't for another three weeks, Enjolras. There's no point exhausting yourself like this now. And besides, have you even thought about getting someone to look over it for you? We're lucky enough to be friends with some of the most enthusiastic and intelligent people in all of Paris. I'm sure Jehan or Combeferre will be able to sort you out. You don't have to do this alone."

Enjolras stared at him, before gathering his papers into a pile and shoving them in Grantaire's direction. The other blinked at him, not making any attempt to take them.

"Enjolras?"

"You look at them. You're the smartest person I know."

"What? Enjolras, come on – don't you think that Combeferre..."

"No. I want you to look. I trust you."

With shaking hands, Grantaire set down the jar of pigment and took the papers, eyes darting left and right as he skimmed through them. By the end of the first page, his brow was furrowed in concentration, quick, nimble brain almost visibly working away as he pulled Enjolras' words apart.

Enjolras waited patiently, confident that Grantaire would soon find the flaws in his arguments. He'd been a fool not to have Grantaire read through them earlier.

His patience was rewarded when Grantaire made a stifled noise of victory on the second-to-last page, enthusiastically tapping at the fourth paragraph with a paint-stained finger.

"Here. You mention _The Social Contract_ and use it as the foundation of all your subsequent arguments. But there will be people who have not read the text, or even had it summarised to them. Would you not be better off to directly quote Rousseau here?"

Seizing the papers back, Enjolras scanned through the aforementioned paragraph, instantly seeing what Grantaire meant.

"Yes! That's it! You've got it! Now all I need to do is grab my copy of..." He stopped, slumping back in his seat. "No good. I left my copy of the book back in Lignac. And the booksellers will be shut at this hour."

Groaning, he suddenly realised a further flaw to his plan. "And tomorrow's Sunday! No one will be open."

"Is it in your family library, or your bedroom?" Grantaire asked, moving to grab his charcoals and sketchbook.

"My bedroom. I left it on top of my wardrobe. Why?"

"Oh, good." Grantaire muttered, sounding pleased. He didn't answer Enjolras' question. "I'm far more familiar with that."

Enjolras flushed, all too aware of exactly why Grantaire had found his childhood bedroom particularly memorable. Caught up in some particularly vivid memories of past indiscretions, it wasn't until he registered the familiar swooping lines of the clock on the mantelpiece that he realised that Grantaire was drawing said bedroom.

"What on earth are you...?"

"Shush. I'm trying to remember how the shadows fell in this corner."

"What?"

"There! Finished!" Grantaire exclaimed, holding the sketchbook out in front of himself and casting a critical eye over it. "It's not perfect, but it should do."

"Do? For what?"

Grantaire grinned at him, his eyes alive with mischief and self-confidence. Enjolras was reminded all over again exactly why he had begged his friend to accompany him to the city.

"While you were making connections with revolutionary organisations and slaving away over speeches, I had to entertain myself. I stumbled upon this spell in one of Jehan's books and had to try it. I've been practising."

"Practising for what? R, you're not making any sense."

"It will soon. Just be prepared to catch me. This tends to take a lot out of me and I've never cast over such a long distance before."

"Wait, _what_?"

Before Enjolras could push for more details, Grantaire had murmured a few indistinct words and thrust his hands against the sketch of Enjolras' bedroom. No. Wait. Plunged his hands _into_ it. Enjolras stared, open-mouthed, as Grantaire let out a mutter of frustration and stuck his head inside the artwork, his whole upper body now lost inside the charcoal lines. It was horribly surreal; his brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing and kept trying to dismiss the whole thing as a clever illusion.

Eventually, Grantaire let out a triumphant squawk and pulled out, waving his right arm around victoriously. Clenched in his hand was a red leather volume, coated in a thin layer of charcoal dust. Trembling, Enjolras took it and flipped it open to the title page. There, inscribed in his grandfather's neat handwriting, was Enjolras' name and the year he had been gifted with the book. It was his actual copy, not a random version. There was no doubt about it.

Looking up to thank Grantaire, Enjolras let out a startled yelp and was just in time to catch the other boy before he hit the floor.

"R? R! Are you alright?"

Grantaire groaned, cracking open one eye to glare dolefully up at Enjolras.

"I thought I told you to be ready to catch me. I nearly split my skull open – fine thanks I get for fetching your book."

Enjolras let out a shaky breath of relief, leaning over to press his forehead against Grantaire's. If Grantaire was complaining, he couldn't be too badly off.

"Don't do that again. I thought something terrible had happened to you." He helped Grantaire sit up, supporting him against his side.

"I'm fine. Like I said, it just takes a lot out of me. Normally I just feel a bit sick and dizzy afterwards. I thought the distance might be a bit too much for me and I was right."

"Do you need to lie down? I can probably get you over to the bed."

"I'm _fine_. And besides, haven't you got a speech to work on? I know you must be itching to make those changes."

"They can wait until tomorrow."

Grantaire squinted at him suspiciously.

"Who are you and what have you done with my Enjolras? He'd never say his speeches could wait."

"Some things are more important than speeches." Enjolras replied, trying to ignore the little flame of pleasure that had sprung up inside him at the phrase 'my Enjolras'.

"Oh." They sat in silence for a while, only the sound of the crackling fire disturbing the peace as Grantaire leaned against Enjolras. Eventually, Enjolras reached down to press a kiss against his friend's temple. Grantaire fumbled a hand over to clasp at Enjolras'.

There was no more speech writing that night.

* * *

The wind was howling up a storm, cruel gusts clawing their way down the streets of Paris as Enjolras hurried home from the university. It was a challenge to open his door against the terrible blasts, and an even greater one to then shut it again. It was with great relief that he mounted the stairs to his rooms, already anticipating the soothing heat of the fire waiting for him. Perhaps, if Grantaire had been feeling particularly domestic today, there might even be hot soup from downstairs warming over the fire; he doubted the other had ventured far from the house today in weather like this.

Caught up in his fantasies, Enjolras was therefore surprised to find their shared rooms dark and cold, the charms in the walls left to die out. He pressed a hand against the painted wood and concentrated, drawing on the small well of power inside of him and breathing life back into the lattice of spellwork. It took a few sputtering attempts – Enjolras had never particularly excelled at magic at school and certainly hadn't made any great leaps in the subject since – and he was quite galled to find Grantaire already sitting slumped in a chair once the room's collection of candles lit up.

"You're here? Why on earth didn't you say anything? You know I barely have the skill to light a match." He stopped, suddenly realising. "And why were you sitting in the dark, anyway?"

Grantaire didn't reply. Enjolras crossed the room to kneel in front of him, worried. He clasped Grantaire's hands in his and hissed at their touch.

"R, you're _freezing_. What the devil's got into you? Why did you let the heat charms go out?" He shifted, frowning as the movement sent an empty bottle spinning across the floor. He'd only just thrown out the old ones this morning. "Are you drunk right now?"

"No." Grantaire finally spoke, his voice a harsh rasping that sent chills down Enjolras' spine. Something was very wrong here. "But I wish I was."

"What happened? Has someone come to the house? Is it bad news?" A sudden thought occurred to him. "Has something happened back home?"

"No. No, they're fine. But you're not."

"What?" Enjolras sat back on his heels, trying to meet Grantaire's eyes under his hair. The other avoided his gaze.

"After you went out this morning, a group of men came to the door. Policemen, mainly, though there was a mage as well."

"What did they want?"

"They said that they'd been keeping an eye on you since your speech outside the Chamber of Deputies. They said that they were well aware of your connections to the Society of the Rights of Man and that you were skirting treason. That you'd drawn the _attention_ of people you didn't want to draw the attention of."

Enjolras blinked, before letting out a small laugh of disbelief.

"That's it? That's wonderful! Don't you see, R? That just means that they're taking us seriously! They know we're making an impact, so they're trying to intimidate us. But it's not going to work. They don't understand how..."

"No, _you_ don't understand, Enjolras!" Grantaire suddenly cried. "They weren't talking about the Friends of the ABC. They were talking about _you_. Just you. One of them mentioned how it was a pity that someone with your potential was going to be wasted like this. Another one started talking about prison, though of course they never said anything directly. The mage even casually mentioned how hard it was for parents to claim the bodies of children who had been executed for treason!"

Enjolras stared, the cry of the wind outside suddenly deafening. In the flickering candlelight, Grantaire looked tired and worn.

"Don't you get it, Enjolras?" He whispered brokenly. "If you don't stop they're coming for your head."

There was a distant drumming in Enjolras' head that was steadily getting louder. Flinging Grantaire's hands back into his lap he leapt to his feet and started pacing, breathing loud in his own ears.

"It doesn't matter."

"Enjolras."

"It _can't_ matter. We're too close now. The king's just dissolved the National Guard; the streets are full of unrest. The people are going to rise soon."

"Enjolras, just listen!"

"We're not in a position to take the lead, but we have too many connections not to support any action that occurs. We'd be betraying our country."

"_Please!_" Grantaire grabbed at Enjolras' sleeve, knuckles white as he clenched at the loose fabric. "Aren't you listening? They want you dead. If you keep doing this, you're going to _die_."

"What do you want from me, Grantaire?!" Enjolras roared, whirling on him. "I can't abandon the people. I won't!"

"But you'll abandon me." Grantaire murmured bitterly, hand sliding off Enjolras' sleeve as he wrapped his arms helplessly around his own waist. Enjolras flinched, cupping Grantaire's face in his hands and raining desperate kisses down on his forehead and cheeks.

"_No_. No, R, no. Not ever. _Not ever_." He tried to kiss Grantaire's lips, feeling it like a dagger between his ribs as Grantaire turned his head to the side defiantly.

"R, please...you know that's not what I meant."

"Isn't it? It seemed pretty clear to me."

"Stop twisting my words! You know how important this is to me. But that doesn't mean I don't care for you."

"Just not enough to stop you from throwing yourself on the funeral pyre to burn."

"R..."

"I can't look at you right now. I'm going to bed."

"Don't. Let's not end on a fight. I love you, R, and I..."

"No!" Grantaire whirled on him, an accusatory finger poking him in the chest. "Don't you dare! Do you know, that's the second time you've told me that you loved me? The _second_!" He let out a hysterical bubble of laughter that was closer to a sob than any true expression of mirth.

"I have been following you about since we were thirteen, Enjolras. I have known you for nearly half our lives. I was your first temptation, your first kiss, your first everything! I followed you halfway across France – _I share your bed every night_. And yet the first time you tell me you love me? Is an accident. The second? You're making plans to die for some idealistic fantasy and leave me behind. How is that fair?"

Enjolras gaped, unable to reply. For the first time in his life his words failed him, settling low in his throat and choking him. He didn't know how to fix this.

"I'm going to stay with Joly and Bossuet tonight. If I stay here I'm going to do or say something we both regret."

"R, please. I can't do this without you." Enjolras got out, his eyes hot and prickling. Grantaire let out a horrible high-pitched sound, his own eyes rimmed in red.

"And I can't watch you die."

The slamming of the door sounded wretchedly final in the sudden silence of the room, a terrible punctuation mark seemingly marking the end of something Enjolras hadn't quite realised was so precious to him.

He dropped to his knees, muffling his screams of frustration in the threadbare rug Grantaire had rescued last month when their neighbour tried to throw it out.

Outside, the wind scraped merciless fingers across the wooden shutters. It sounded like it was laughing.

* * *

The next few weeks were tense and lonely. It was the longest Enjolras had been without Grantaire since first making his acquaintance, and Enjolras sorely felt the lack. That was not to say that Enjolras' days were empty: his studies still took up a large proportion of his day, and there was always planning or writing to do in the name of the Cause. But his evenings seemed colder, however much he tinkered with the room's spellwork. Lacking the sarcastic commentary of his roommate, the silences wore on without surrender, coating every thought and gesture of Enjolras' in a thin layer of misery.

The meetings were even worse. Every success and enlightening conversation was marred by the conspicuous absence of their most vocal member. Worse still, he kept catching the others watching him out of the corner of their eyes as if he was some fragile teacup about to break. Joly and Bossuet had not attended the first meeting after his fight with Grantaire, and when they returned for the next meeting they vanished before Enjolras could ask after their new houseguest. Enjolras arranged for Combeferre to close the third meeting for him, only for the elusive pair to make their escape early. It wasn't until the fourth meeting that Enjolras managed to corner them, and even that was mainly due to Bossuet's infamous bad luck sending him crashing down courtesy of a misplaced stool.

"How is he?" Enjolras blurted, clearly not enquiring after Bossuet's own health. The pair exchanged wary glances, Joly leaning heavily on his cane as he pulled Bossuet upright.

"He's...coping." Joly eventually replied, making something sharp in Enjolras' gut twist. That wasn't the comforting response he'd wanted.

"Is he drinking?"

"What do you think?" That was a yes, then.

"Tell him that he's welcome home whenever he's ready. No questions or conditions." Enjolras managed. "And tell him...tell him I..." He hesitated, unsure of what to say. He and Grantaire had never explicitly told the group just what they were to each other, though he was sure everyone had guessed immediately. Now, he had no idea just how to frame the whirling mess of emotions twisting through his head.

"Tell him that...tell him that I..." He flailed for the right words, jerking as Joly rested a gentle hand on his. 

"We'll tell him." The medical student said kindly.

* * *

The winds and showers of spring had faded into the steadily rising heat of late June, leaving the air muggy and oppressive as Enjolras made his way home from that night's meeting. He was limping slightly, his leg still tender from the stray blast of magic that had just caught him during their last speech and pamphlet session on the streets of Paris. An accident, apparently – the young man had been awfully apologetic, citing summer allergies – but Enjolras wasn't the naive fool they thought him to be. He knew the net was closing in on him.

It had been a warning.

Glancing up at the windows above, Enjolras wondered how many of the people tucked inside those cosy, fire-lit rooms were aware of the corruption eroding their city away at its core. How many actually cared? Would the city rise, as he believed, when the time was right? Would the spark of rebellion catch fire, or was he throwing his life away for nothing? He sighed, shaking his head wearily at himself in vague disgust. He was letting them get to him; even if he died, it would not be for nothing. Let him set the example to others; let others rise to take his place and fight on his stead.

His gaze wandering aimlessly across the upper windows and roofs of the street, it took a moment for Enjolras to realise that his own window was also aglow. He stopped, staring, his pulse beginning to thunder.

Could it be...?

Taking off running, Enjolras ignored the screaming protests made by his leg, his feet pounding along the cobbled street. Nearly overshooting, he grabbed for the doorway and swung himself in, clattering up the steps without a single thought for how foolish he must look. Bursting into his rooms, he swept the living area with his eyes and sagged in sudden disappointment at finding it empty.

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras whipped around, barely stifling the desperate noise that escaped him at the sight of Grantaire standing on the staircase behind him, cradling a pile of various boxed goods. Without giving it a second thought he lunged forward, ignoring the startled squeak Grantaire emitted as he shoved him against the wall and kissed him deeply. A distant clatter as the groceries fell to floor and then Grantaire was urgently kissing him back, greedy hands sliding round the small of Enjolras' back and pulling him closer.

Enjolras was vaguely aware that this was ridiculously inappropriate for the stairway – there were other rooms above them and anyone might happen upon them at any moment – but he couldn't bring himself to care. _Grantaire was home_.

Grantaire gasped into his mouth and Enjolras shivered, pulse rushing at the thought that he could still affect Grantaire like this. He couldn't quite stop himself from sliding his knee between Grantaire's legs, revelling in the way Grantaire surged against him, all arched, trembling lines and desperate touches. Winding his hands into Grantaire's soft curls, he tugged sharply, tilting Grantaire's head to the side and determinedly mouthing his way down his jaw to his neck, grinding forward with a helpless groan as Grantaire whimpered. _Mine_, he thought wildly, biting down on tender skin and wishing he could somehow swallow Grantaire's strangled moans at the same time. _Minemineminemine, never leave me, don't leave me, not again._

Heaven knows how far they would have gone were it not for the sound of upstairs' door jarring them both back to reality. As it was, they barely managed to wrench themselves apart and grab most of Grantaire's purchases before the student from upstairs made it to their floor. Leaning against their door, panting, they listened as the student came to a stop outside with a bemused 'huh'. There was a pause, then a soft rustling, and then the sound of retreating footsteps as the student finally continued on his way.

Enjolras pulled back. He made to smile at Grantaire, but Grantaire wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was gazing balefully down at his little cluster of dented packages.

"There go the grapes. I bet he took them." He said mournfully. A quick glance outside proved him correct.

"I could go and buy more, if you want." Enjolras offered. Now that the initial passion had faded, there was a growing awkwardness rising between them. Grantaire smiled slightly at the suggestion, shaking his head.

"We can do without them for tonight."

Silence. Enjolras shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat, flinging them carelessly onto the cabinet before suddenly realising that he had been doing that every night since Grantaire left. The place was a wreck. He made an aborted move to tidy up, only to pull up helplessly as he realised he didn't even know where to begin.

"I'm sorry, the place is a mess. I'll just...I mean I'll..."

"Enjolras."

"It's ridiculous. There you are already with the week's supplies, having just come back, and I can't even keep a simple room clean. Let me just..."

"_Enjolras_. It's okay. Relax." Grantaire reached round to take his hand in his, twining their fingers together. Enjolras stilled, looking helplessly down at their clasped hands.

"Besides," Grantaire continued, his eyes bright with a mischief that Enjolras had badly missed these past few weeks. "I knew what I was getting into when I came here. Back home, your room was always a mess. And that was when you had _servants_."

The pair broke down giggling, the tension between them vanishing as if it had never been there. The rest of the evening passed peacefully, a soft blur of shared laughter and companionship.

It wasn't until they were lying in bed together that night, covers pulled up to their shoulders as Enjolras tenderly traced Grantaire's lips with his fingers, that he even dared to mention their separation.

"I was worried you wouldn't come back." He whispered, blinking back sudden tears of grief for the time they had lost. The time that he had thought himself alone again forever. "You sounded so certain when you left."

Grantaire let out a small shrug.

"It turns out that the only thing worse than watching you die was waiting to hear that you had. Every day, I just sat in Joly's chair, waiting to hear that they'd got you. That you were gone. When Bossuet told me you'd been hurt, I set the curtains on fire."

"You did?" Enjolras blinked. Grantaire snorted, eyes bright with something unnameable.

"By accident, of course. I was just so _angry_."

"At me?"

"Yes, at you. And at the people who'd hurt you. But mostly myself. I felt useless."

"You'll never be useless, R. You keep me grounded. You always will." He leaned in for a kiss, prepared for the conversation to fade, never to be spoken of again. Enjolras had meant the kiss to be a soft, brief one, but Grantaire pressed forwards with a strange desperation, body vibrating as he clung to Enjolras and forced it deeper. Confused, Enjolras responded, faintly worried by the sudden taste of salt against his lips.

Then Grantaire shifted back out of Enjolras' reach, an odd twist to his mouth. To Enjolras' dismay, he was crying; not the dramatic, body shaking sobs you saw on stage, but the even more distressing trickle of silent tears that spilled down Grantaire's cheeks as if only an after-thought.

"R?" Enjolras asked, alarmed. Grantaire smiled weakly at him.

"While I was away, I solved your problem, you know." He said, not even acknowledging his tears. "I knew you'd never be able to give up your Cause, so I found a way to keep you safe in the meantime."

"What? How?!" Enjolras exclaimed. Grantaire's statement should have filled him with wonder, but his grief had put Enjolras on edge. Something wasn't right here.

"I couldn't stop you fighting for what you believe in – it's what makes you who you are. And I couldn't stop people from trying to hurt you – there were just too many factors to control. So I found someone who would protect you from their attacks instead."

"A...a bodyguard?"

"No. More than that. I made a deal. I thought it might be too much to ask for, but she assured me that no job was too big as long as I was willing to pay the price."

The words were oddly familiar, ringing in Enjolras' ears as a memory stirred. A pounding started in his head, a scared drumming beat echoing inside him as his heart began to hammer in his chest.

"Who? _Who did you make a deal with_?"

"Madame Thénardier."

"No. Oh, god, no. R, what have you _done_?" Enjolras choked out, sitting up and burying his face in his hands. The screams of Brodeur echoed in his ears, Montparnasse's sadistic smile gleaming in the darkness of his memory. He thought of Grantaire screaming like that and wanted to be sick.

_"She earns a living now making deals with the desperate and foolhardy."_ Combeferre's voice whispered accusingly in his ear.

"It's okay. It's _okay_, Enjolras." Grantaire insisted, sitting up and trying to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Enjolras flinched away, still thinking of Brodeur's wizened form.

"There's always a price."

"And I was willing to pay it."

"What was it?" Silence. "_What was it, Grantaire_?" He reached over and grabbed at Grantaire's arms, shaking him. "_Tell me_!"

"My life!" Grantaire finally burst out. Enjolras let out a wounded moan. "A life for a life, my life for yours."

"Take it back. Break the deal."

"It's too late."

"Nothing has happened yet; she can't accuse you of tricking her out of anything. Break the deal."

"I can't."

"Please!"

"_I can't_, Enjolras. I bear her Mark." He pulled the collar of his shirt down, exposing the swirl of dark patterning over his heart. They hadn't bothered undressing earlier; now Enjolras wondered if that had been intentional.

"Why?" Enjolras whispered, tracing the inky lines with trembling fingers. They felt oddly warm to the touch, pulsing with a strange energy that Enjolras wanted to rip away from Grantaire's fragile, mortal skin. "Why would you trade your life for mine?" _How could you be so stupid,_ he didn't say.

"Because I love you. And because it was the only way."

"So what, the first time someone tries to kill me you'll drop down dead?" Enjolras wheezed. He looked away, unable to look at Grantaire without seeing him staring sightlessly up at the sky, bright eyes dark and empty.

"No, that's not what I...Enjolras, will you just look at me? That is not the deal I made." Grantaire snapped in frustration. There was a sudden weight in his palm, and Enjolras looked down reluctantly to see what had been placed there.

"An amulet?" The dark bronze gleamed in the candlelight, the small circular charm looking just as innocuous as any piece of jewellery you might find in the marketplace.

"It's full of protection spells. As long as you wear it, nothing can harm you. Not bullets, not fire, not magic. You'll be safe."

"And you'll be dead." He said bitterly.

"Not quite. I'll be hers."

"What?"

Enjolras jerked his eyes up to meet Grantaire's, a sudden hope blooming in his chest. If Grantaire wasn't dead, then maybe there was a way to...

"A life for a life. Your life will be saved, while mine will be erased. Everyone who ever knew me will forget me."

"You can't be serious. You must have interacted with hundreds of people across your lifetime, R – there's no possible way she can seamlessly erase the memories of that many people."

"She won't have to. You'll remember knowing someone called R. But you won't remember what really happened to them. You won't remember what they looked like, or the sound of their voice. You could walk past me on the street and never have a clue."

"_No_." The word punched its way out of him, harsh and brutal. It was almost worse than the thought of Grantaire dying – to know that he'd be out there, forced to do Thénardier's bidding, lost to Enjolras forever when in reality he was mere streets away... "_I refuse_."

"It's done, Enjolras." Grantaire said softly. "The moment you fall asleep, you'll forget it all."

"Then what about the amulet?" Enjolras demanded, grasping at straws. "How can you be sure I'll wear it if I can't remember what it is?"

"There's a compulsion spell on it. It will force you to wear it every day. Or at least, it will for a few months. It'll wear off after it's become a habit."

Enjolras snorted angrily, thwarted. "You really did think of everything."

"Please don't be angry, Enjolras. It was the only way. I love you."

"_Stop saying that_! Stop saying that when you...when you..." He couldn't handle it anymore. Suddenly, he knew exactly how Grantaire had felt during that argument weeks ago. 'I love you' had never been so poisonous.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras." Grantaire was crying again and Enjolras let him pull him back down onto the bed, the pair twining around each other as if they could become one flesh and stave off the inevitable. "I'm so, so sorry."

And that was wrong too. This wasn't Grantaire's fault. It was his.

"I love you. I love you now, and I love you later. Even when I don't know you, I will still love you." Enjolras whispered desperately. He felt carved open, hollowed out, his heart on display for all to see. "You're mine, R. Mine forever. Not hers."

"Yours."

"Mine."

They lay there until the early hours of the morning, Enjolras fighting off sleep with every fibre of his being. But it had been a long month and Enjolras hadn't slept more than a few hours a night since Grantaire left him; eventually he succumbed. Grantaire stayed for a while, wrapped around his lover, memorising the feeling of Enjolras' head resting on his shoulder.

Until, finally, he eased himself up and out of bed, careful not to wake his sleeping friend.

He placed the note from his pocket on his pillow.

He took one last look behind him.

And then he walked out of Enjolras' life forever.

* * *

Enjolras woke to the sun streaming in through his window, the sound of birdsong weaving down from among the chimneys. Stretching an arm across the bed, he frowned when he encountered nothing but air, opening his eyes to stare across the empty expanse of blankets.

Unfolding the note that had been left for him, he clenched his jaw as he read it, fingers dancing agitatedly against the paper as he scanned the words written so boldly and plainly for him.

_I'm sorry. I have somewhere else to be. You'll be fine without me. _ _Good luck_

_ with the revolution. I know that history will be on your side in the end. But I can't be._

_ R._

Then he screwed it up and threw it out of the window, letting out a harsh, broken roar of grief and rage as he ripped the bed apart.

It was only later, after several scared and worried neighbours had knocked tentatively at his door, that Enjolras would dress, making sure to drape his amulet about his neck before tying his cravat. He'd done his mourning; he had work to do.

Within a matter of weeks, the Three Glorious Days were upon Paris. Enjolras played his part with unfaltering eagerness, throwing himself into the riotous crowd with gleeful aplomb. The air was full of projectiles, paving slabs, roofing tiles, magic and bullets alike all flying overhead.

Later, a young man would swear blind that Enjolras had taken three bullets and a curse to the back.

Enjolras was unscathed.

**Author's Note:**

> And so, I present to you the first piece of writing I have completed in nearly four years!
> 
> This was designed as a prequel to a longer fic I'm planning for this universe, so hopefully people enjoyed this. If you liked it, please do leave me some kudos or drop me a comment - I tend to have very low writing motivation due to working 50-60+ hour weeks, so every little helps.


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